The Boston Tea Party
by Gillian Beilschmidt
Summary: It is December 1773, and colonial America is getting tired of England's control freak ways. Based on the actual historical tea party because I am a dork. Human names used, non-USUK, just silliness. Who thought it was a good idea to let Alfred Kirkland near a bunch of drunk revolutionaries, anyway? Rated T for language to be safe. Cover image by Himaruya.
1. Chapter 1 - Homecoming

**A/N: This story is too long to be a one-shot, but it's also not going to be more than three or four chapters, just a head's up. Enjoy!**

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The winter sun streamed in through the windows of the HMS _Albion_, making the chilly captain's quarters uncommonly warm for December in the Atlantic Ocean. Arthur Kirkland paced the floors of the cabin restlessly, running an anxious hand through his messy blond hair. They would be in Boston soon, and he was both delighted and dismayed at the prospect.

His young charge Alfred was probably at the wharf already, heckling the merchants and chasing seagulls and being a general nuisance. Arthur had to smile at the thought. That lad was growing at a frankly alarming rate, and his love of mischief was growing along with it. Which was less than ideal, the former pirate mused, because Alfred Kirkland was more than a headstrong boy—he was the personification of England's colony, America, as Arthur himself was the personification of the British Empire. And although Arthur was terribly fond of him, lately he'd become more rebellious than usual.

And not just that, he was cocky too, he thought with a scowl. Why, he had positively laughed when Arthur insisted that their people not travel past the Appalachian Mountains a few years ago*, and for their own safety, too! And then there had been the whole Stamp Act fiasco*. Just thinking about it made England want to shake the young man and set him straight. Really, the taxes were to alleviate the debt that had been created for America's protection! (And that Canada boy, too.) Arthur took a deep breath, reminding himself that although Alfred was a colony, he was also a young man, and young man did like to act before settling down to become proper English gentlemen (like himself). Yes, America would behave, he and that quiet brother of his –Matthias?—would grow up to be fine subjects of the British Empire.

Just then, the cabin boy poked his head into Arthur's rooms, and announced in a chipper Cockney voice, "We've arrived, Cap'n! We're at Boston!"

"Good lad," Arthur said, shaking off his irritated mood and flashing the boy a smile as he strode to the doorway. "It's been too long since I've seen America."

-Boston, Massachussetts, December 1773—

"Good gracious lad, I'd forgotten what an appetite you have," John Hancock remarked with amusement, watching as his young friend Alfred Kirkland reached for yet another cut of delicious Virginia ham.

"I can't 'elp it," he declared around bits of tender meat, his bright blue eyes shining. "I'm a growin' lad! And besides," he added, swallowing, "once Iggy gets here, I'll have to force myself to eat his cooking, so this has to tide me over until he leaves."

John laughed again, shaking his head at the young man's reasoning. "Well, at least you have _some_ manners," he mused, and added, "and get your elbows off the table, you little heathen."

Alfred snorted, pretending to daintily wipe his chin as he polished off another helping of mashed potatoes. "You sound like Mrs. Adams," he teased, referring to John's friend's wife, Abigail Adams. "She hasn't tamed me yet!"

"Yet," John emphasized. He regarded the young man thoughtfully as he threw back some mulled cider. He was going to be a tall man when he finished growing—and muscular too, thanks to the work he sometimes did in town. He had unruly golden brown hair and a cowlick that stuck out defiantly on the side of his head, despite constant coaxing. His face was lightly dusted with freckles, and his round eyes were the same color as the clear Atlantic Ocean that ran up to meet the Boston Wharf. He was a good-looking young man, but it was his cheerful, hardworking personality that made him so likeable, despite his cheeky nature (or perhaps because of it, John mused. Really, Alfred reminded him of himself when he was younger.) "But not for lack of trying. Say, when did you say Mr. Kirkland was going to get here?" He was one of the few humans who knew about the nations' semi-immortal status and what they represented; he also knew that Alfred's older brother figure heartily disapproved of himself and had had his ships confiscated, something that John was still angry about (but at least the people of Boston, who were quite fond of him, had put up enough of a fuss that some of those odious Townshend Acts got revoked, he recalled with a smirk.)

"Oh yeah!" Alfred said brightly, sitting up straighter at the mention of Arthur's name. "He wrote me before he left England and said he would be here this week…I haven't been down to the wharf to see if they've come in yet. But I think we would know if some more redcoats showed up in Boston," he added with a grin. Lately, the colonists and imperial Britain had been cordial, but it seemed that more and more little arguments were breaking out between the two English-speaking peoples. He actually hadn't seen Arthur in three years—not since that dark day in 1770. But he was ready to forgive him, and he really did miss him. He rushed to the window of John Hancock's lavish home facing the harbor, but his view was obscured by the Hancocks' fine English garden. "John, you really have to do something about all these damn flowers," he said crossly, straining to see over the hedges. "It's so bloody domestic."

John shook his head, grinning at the young man. "Get out of my home already, you nuisance. And tell that boss of yours not to confiscate any more of my ships!"

Alfred bounced away from the windows—he literally bounced when he walked, all knees and elbows, and he was too damn energetic for his own good—over to the table where John lazily sat at the head like the aristocrat he was. "Maybe you should stop your smuggling operations," he chuckled as he picked up two soft rolls for the road. Everyone knew that John Hancock was the primary competition in Boston for the East India Tea Company, something that amused the genteel privateer greatly.

John just laughed, as if that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Right, lad. I'll see you at the Admiral Benbow Inn tomorrow night, right? Sam[1] requested that you be there. Says it's important."

"Yep!" Alfred said, mock saluting the man. "See you tomorrow!" Snagging an apple from the table for good measure, he dashed out of the Hancock mansion, racing down the steps and out to the busy street. Although Beacon Hill was slightly elevated, he still couldn't see past the miscellaneous carriages, horses, and pedestrians to the wharf to see if the ship had reached the harbor yet. Heck, he had gone down every day for the past week to check—Arthur probably wasn't here yet. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he really did miss him.

Racing past the smithy and the cobbler's, he finally made it down to the wharf, and to his delight, he saw Artie's beloved two-masted brigantine, the _Albion_, sitting contently in the Boston Harbor. The ship looked mostly empty from where he stood; Arthur had probably given his men shore leave already. They were bound to be around here somewhere, but he didn't see the familiar uniforms of His Majesty's navy, nor did he spy England's distinct messy mop among any of the crowd.

He frowned slightly—he did not _pout_, whatever Artie might say, because that was a very unheroic thing to do—as he continued to pace the cobbled streets. He was not patient by nature, and was greatly relieved when he saw a cluster of navy sailors at the docks, pulling in the rowboats they had traveled in from the ship. He saw a flash of the familiar naval blue coat and shouted, "ARTIE!"

Predictably, Arthur Kirkland looked less than pleased to have his charge screaming his nickname in front of his men, but he looked like he was trying to hold back a grin as Alfred came barreling towards him.

Lord, he had gotten taller! Why, they were practically the same height! Arthur thought with concern as Alfred hugged him tightly, talking a mile a minute as usual about what he had for lunch and what he had been doing for the past few months and how Arthur's letters always made him laugh. "Hello, chap," Arthur said, chuckling a bit as he hugged the boy back. "Slow down, lad, I can barely understand what you're saying. My God, your English is just as terrible as I remember. These Bostonians are corrupting you."

"Whatever you say, Captain," Alfred said happily, glad to have his best friend back. "Come on! We have a lot to do, but first, I'm hungry! So we're going to my favorite pub to get some food, okay? My treat!" (Never mind that Arthur provided Alfred's allowance.)

"Lead the way," Arthur said, nodding at the few remaining sailors to dismiss them. He had been a little apprehensive about seeing America, but all his worries melted away when he saw how happy the young man seemed to see him. Smiling, he resigned himself to at least an hour of Alfred's yammering, unable to be too miffed about the whole "Artie" thing.

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[1] Samuel Adams, John Hancock's acquaintance and one of the leading instigators of the Tea Party.

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_Albion_ is the ancient name of Great Britain. Hurr hurr I'm so clever. But really England, did you have to name a ship after yourself? :P


	2. Chapter 2 - Meetings

**A/N: So, I'm sorry that I haven't been updating as frequently as I'd like! I'm writing another Hetalia fic, Beg, Steal, or Borrow (hint hint). And college. You know.**

**Anyway, I'm trying to minimize the OC's (a.k.a. Revolutionary Bros) for y'all's sake, because I could easily write historical fiction all day...it's just great...especially about the American Revolution. FREEDOM. Anyway, this was supposed to have some brotherly fluff, but...it didn't go according to plan.**

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The Old South Meetinghouse was rather crowded on that Tuesday, December, the fourteenth. As Alfred pushed his way through the crowd to see his old friend Sam Adams, he could hear the angry murmuring of the Boston common folk. They were furious that the two tea merchant ships from earlier in December were still present in their beloved harbor, and even more upset that they claimed they would not leave until the tea had been unloaded and paid for.

_Really, Artie, what were you thinking, pushing this tax on us? _The teenager wondered to himself as he pushed his way past a young shoemaker to get to where Samuel Adams sat on the top of a table, looking contemplative and sipping on a glass of ale. "Hey there, lad," he said when he spotted the gangly American boy. "Glad you could make it. Did you get those handbills put up like I asked?"

"I sure did!" Alfred said, beaming. He took a deep breath, and yelled, _"Friends! Brethren! Countrymen! The perfidious act of your reckless enemies to render ineffectual the late resolves of the body of the people, demands your assembling at the Old South Meeting House, precisely at ten o'clock this day, at which time the bells will ring!"_

"Yes, yes, that's the one," Adams said, chuckling, as the young man gave him a sweeping bow, looking quite pleased with himself. "Well, we got a good turn out today, so you must have used every last one of them." He turned to the restless crowd that had assembled inside the old meetinghouse, mostly working class men, but a few gentry had gathered in the back, and even a woman or two.

"My friends," he said seriously, "I have asked you to come here today so that we might take action on these brash tea merchants that have entered our harbor. Governor Hutchinson has said that they will not leave until the tea is paid for—"

A hearty round of booing and hissing went up.

"—however, we have no intentions of paying that infernal tax, " he continued after it had died down.

"What'll we do, then?" Someone piped up, a nervous Quaker from Nantucket.

"The surrounding towns have promised to aid any action that Boston might take," Adams said carefully, watching the anxious crowd in front of him. "We have already informed the British Crown that we will not allow any more of that noxious weed to enter our harbors, and they have ignored us. And so, I propose…" He paused dramatically.

Alfred watched his older friend with interest, wondering where he was going with this. He half wondered if it might not be easier for him to just bargain with Arthur himself, but as the Parliament technically had more control than his mentor, he didn't think it was worth the effort. And besides, he was quite interested in whatever mischief Sam Adams was proposing.

"I propose we have a tea party," he said, a slow smile crinkling the lines of his face.

At first, Alfred didn't follow, even when the adults around him started chuckling and nodding, looking like gleeful little schoolboys.

"We're not going to actually _drink _it, are we?" Alfred asked his neighbor, a rough-looking man on his left. He only drank tea to placate Arthur, but he really couldn't stand it.

"Hell no, boy," he said with a laugh. "But we'll unload it, alright."

Slowly, a smile of comprehension grew on his face, and Alfred laughed too, giddy with excitement.

"Alright, fellow patriots," Sam said, trying to get their attention back. "We'll meet here on the morning of the sixteenth, at ten o'clock. We'll show Parliament exactly what we think of their damn tea. We'll—" But at this point he was drowned out in cheers.

Alfred looked around him, at how excited his fellow Bostonians were. He could almost feel an electric charge in the air, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something was changing, and not just in Boston. These defiant British colonists were directly challenging the authority of Parliament, just like they had been doing for the past ten years, but this…this felt different. He wondered what Arthur would think of all of this—Arthur! He was supposed to meet him at his home in Cambridge at three o'clock!

"I have to go, Mr. Adams," he yelled over the increasingly noisy assembly. "I'll see you on the sixteenth!" He raced out of the old meetinghouse and ran to the common, where his horse was tethered. He quickly saddled the beautiful strawberry roan and led her out of the pasture, patting her flank. "Sorry, girl, we're going to have to make up for lost time," he said, swinging himself up by the pommel of the saddle. "Artie's going to kill me if I'm late!" He nudged her flanks and they tore down the Boston streets, mindless of the complaints of the townspeople, as usual.

Two hours later, Alfred pulled his mount aside in front of the beautiful, neo-classical style house that served as his mentor's home away from home. He handed his horse over to a servant and ran up to the tall oak doors, wiping the sweat off his brow with his cravat before pounding on the door loudly. To his surprise, Arthur himself answered, instead of one of his manservants.

"There you are," Arthur said with a slight frown. "Your tea is probably cold by now. I thought you said you would be here at three."

"I, uh, had some important matters to attend to," Alfred replied, striding in the door imperiously. "Whatcha got to eat around here, huh?"

"I made scones, since it's too early for supper and you're always hungry," Arthur said brightly, following his charge into the spacious kitchen.

"Oh," Alfred said, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. _Now I have to drink tea _and _eat those disgusting scones. I'm sorry, stomach! _"Great." He resigned himself to eating at least one. That would be enough to make him happy, right?

"So, Alfred," Arthur said, taking a seat across from him. "I wanted to speak to you as a country for a moment. You see, I've been hearing some rumors…" He paused, watching the younger man's face carefully.

"Oh yeah?" Alfred asked, choking on a bit of a scone. "About what? Is Spain pestering you again? Cause I told him, we didn't want any trouble, but if he wanted to pick a fight, then-"

"No, America," Arthur said seriously, his thick eyebrows slanting down over his emerald green eyes. Alfred glanced up at him then; they only used their nation names for very important matters. "I wanted to ask you if you knew anything about this…" He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his maroon overcoat and slid it across the table to him.

With a sinking feeling, Alfred unfolded the piece of paper, although he suspected that he knew what it already said. Sure enough, it was one of the playbills he had posted earlier that week around Boston. He swallowed, hoping the guilt wasn't as obvious on his face as he thought it was. Instead of answering right away, he laughed in his usual loud, offputting manner. "Where'd you find this old thing, huh?" He said, folding it back up.

"Outside of a meeting house, by the wharf," Arthur answered quietly, a strange look in his eyes. "I find it odd, and rather alarming, that subjects of His Majesty would refer to tax collectors and other representatives as 'reckless enemies'. Alfred, did you have anything to do with this?"

"That's a silly question," Alfred said dismissively, starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable. It had all been fun and games with his friends earlier, but now Arthur was starting to make him feel pretty guilty, and he hated that. He ran a nervous hand through his sandy hair, trying to make the stubborn cowlick of Nantucket lie down. _Damn Nantucket_, he thought crossly.

"I see," Arthur said evenly.

"All the same, maybe you should put in a good word for us at Parliament, huh?" The American said, unable to read the tense atmosphere. "My people are getting kind of annoyed about paying for all that tea, and—"

"_Your _people?" Arthur exploded suddenly, jumping up from his seat and slamming his hands down so hard on the table that Alfred's tea ended up splattering his white wool breeches with the brownish liquid. "I think you're forgetting something key, my boy. _You _don't have any people. _You_ are a colony."

Alfred glared at him, blue eyes flashing angrily. "I know what I am," he said. "You reminded me of that the last time some of _your _men killed some of _my _colonists." He clenched his fists at the memory.

"Your damn Bostonians provoked my soldiers!" Arthur exclaimed furiously. He looked at the expression on Alfred's face and sat down with a sigh, massaging his temples. "Listen, Alfred, I really don't want to fight about that. Or anything. I just wanted to spend some time with you. But I am really worried about these recent developments, and Boston just seems to attract all sorts of trouble…"

"I love Boston," Alfred protested, not quite over the heated words they had just exchanged. He didn't want to fight either, but dammit, he wasn't being fair!

"I know you do," Arthur said, sighing again. "But for the time being, I think it would be best if you went to live in Virginia for awhile. Virginia is such a nice, quiet little colony, very aristocratic—"

"What! I can't leave Boston!"

Arthur gave him a stern look. "Yes, you can, and you _will. _Next week, in fact." _The sooner he's away from these Bostonian hotheads, the better,_ he thought to himself.

"You can't make me!" Alfred yelled.

"Don't test me," Arthur replied, glowering. "This is for your own good. Obviously, this city is having a bad influence on you—"

"You just don't want to admit that I'm growing up," Alfred said quietly, almost inaudibly. He slumped in his chair, looking withdrawn.

"What did you say?" Arthur asked carefully, giving him a chance to change his words.

"I'm almost as tall as you, Iggy," Alfred said with a slight smile. "You know what that means. When countries start growing—"

"No," Arthur snapped. "It doesn't mean anything. Has France been putting these stupid ideas in your head?"

"I can think for myself, you know," Alfred said, scowling.

"Can you?" Arthur said sarcastically.

Alfred stood up suddenly and stormed off without saying anything for once.

"Where are you going?" Arthur demanded, jumping up to follow him too. "Alfred? Hey!"

He didn't answer. By the time he got to the door, Alfred had already gotten on his horse and was riding back to Boston. Arthur slumped against the doorframe, banging his head against the door until his butler came to ask what was the matter.

"I think I just upset my only friend in the world, again," Arthur said, not moving from the doorframe.

"I'm sure he'll come back, sir," his servant said readily. "You know how hot tempered young men can be."

"I hope you're right, Edward," Arthur said sadly, watching a slight dust cloud follow the young colony as he rode away.

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_Whooo okay time for historical notes!_

_Yeah, the Old South Meetinghouse is a real place! Where it all began, so to speak. Go to this site for more info! old-south-meeting-house-history_

_The tax they're referring to is...well, it could be either the Townshend Acts (1769; originally was a revenue-raising tax on glass, paper, tea, etc. but it was so unpopular that Parliament was forced to repeal all but the tea tax) or the actual Tea Tax, passed in May of 1773 to bail out the failing East India Company, and giving it a monopoly on tea. Well, the colonists didn't take kindly to that! And yeah, the 'killing of his people' that Alfred refers to is the Boston Massacre in 1770, when five Boston locals were killed by some British regulars. Well, they did provoke them, and throw snow-covered rocks at armed men. I'm not justifying that, but that's never a good idea, in my humble opinion. Although I can't say I'd pass up the chance to taunt some redcoats..._

_That handbill that Alfred passed out is real! :D Yes, I quite like the strong wording. Samuel Adams was quite famous for his revolutionary ways...like my darling Enjolras! Only Sam was the son of a brewster, and I feel like Enjolras was much more serious. But yeah, obviously Arthur didn't care for that..._

_And yeah, Spain is here! Well, I mentioned him, he's not really here. The southernmost British colony in North America at this time is Georgia, so it's pretty close to Spanish Florida. I don't know how much trouble they'd be giving each other, but Catholics and Protestants have always had disputes in the past, so..._

_Anyway, it is REALLY IMPORTANT TO NOTE that America is still very much a __**British **__colony at this point. The people consider themselves Englishmen and women, and although they're less than pleased with Parliament, they still swear allegiance to King George III (even my favorite ginger Thomas Jefferson tries winning him over to their demands right up until the Declaration is signed in 1776!) So right now, tensions are just running high...the colonists, i.e. Alfred, do not like being told what to do. They're just in a rebellious phase :) It'll pass, and he and Arthur will live together forever and be the best of bros 3_

_What? You mean the Revolution didn't happen like that? Okay, I'll just cry..._


	3. Chapter 3 - The Boston Tea Party

**A/N: Finally, an update for my most neglected fic! Tell me what you think!**

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That fateful night, a sliver of a moon hung above the murky waters of the Boston harbor. Like victors from battle, the patriots emerged from the Old South Meetinghouse around midnight, to a cheering crowd. Clumsily clad in Indian regalia and war paint or soot, the eighty or so Sons of Liberty stormed the _Dartmouth_, the first of two imperial tea ships that refused to leave the harbor.

Alfred F. Kirkland let out a war whoop as he ran down the cobbled stone road to the harbor, an axe held high above his head, hot on the heels of John Hancock, who was brandishing a lantern like a weapon. The enthusiastic pair raced up the gangplank to the British merchant ship, yelling all the way. John held up his lantern high above his head so they could find the tea chests—and find them they did. There were _hundreds _of the chests, fine Ceylon and Darjeelings from India, and when they were brought up to the main deck, the heavy scent of tea leaves flooded their nostrils, clashing with the pungent smell of alcohol that many of the men carried.

Alfred hefted up a chest onto the rim of the ship, peering out into the black water beneath him. His heart pounded furiously in his chest and his face was flushed with the whiskey he had just consumed. _Wait til old England hears about this,_ he thought enthusiastically. "John!" He called over to his friend, who was helping another group of men carry up more chests from the storage. "Come over here! I wanna throw the first one off together!" He lifted his axe and viciously hacked into the wooden container with a horrifying yell of demonic glee.

The older man grinned, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. "You got it, lad," he chuckled. He took the other end of the chest, and yelled, "This is for my _Liberty*_, you English bastards!" And they heaved it over the side, creating a huge splash that rippled out for several feet.

Alfred whooped again. He could scarcely believe that this was happening. He'd never done anything so rebellious in his life—yeah, he'd done stupid stuff before to piss off Artie, but nothing like this. It was practically giving the finger to the East India Tea Company, and his mentor was sure to choke on his English Breakfast tea when he heard about this! "This one," he grunted, picking up an especially heavy oak chest of Ceylon, "is for America!" He threw it over the side with a great heave, and watched it sink to the bottom of the harbor. "Hell yeah," he muttered to himself as he caught his breath.

The roar of the crowd sounded in his ears like the roar of a tide, swiftly moving in and out, sweeping over them all. He could literally feel the energy and the pulse of the crowd, of the frustrated and rebellious citizens around him, determined to have their way, even if it meant infuriating their king and Parliament. As he watched them work together, the working class men and the dandies joking and swapping flasks side by side, he felt himself swell with pride. _You were wrong Arthur_, he thought defiantly. _These _are _my people. _

"Don't stop now," someone to his left said, a diminutive man that he had seen sometimes in the street. "We have over a hundred left to dump, and that's just the _Dartmouth!_"

Alfred laughed, snapping out of his reverie. "Damn straight!" He agreed, slapping the tea dust off his hands. "Here, I'll help you with this one," he said to the smaller man, who was struggling to lift a chest of Darjeeling. "Damn, this tea smells awful," he laughed, lifting it high over his head easily and throwing it several yards out into the harbor.

The shoe maker regarded him with awe. He was so young to his eyes, not even twenty, but he moved with the confidence of a much older man and the strength of a young man in his prime. "Who are you, young master?" He asked, studying the younger man closely, despite the havoc that occurred around them.

Alfred watched the quiet town doctor smashing into a chest of tea and smiled so wide that his eyes turned up at the corners before turning back to his companion. "Just a patriot doing his duty to piss off the British Empire," he said cheekily, tipping his wreath of pseudo-Indian feathers at the working man. "Nothing more, nothing less." _If only you knew_, he thought gleefully, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "Now, are you gonna help me unload the rest of this god-awful weed, or what?"

The "party" continued for another three hours at least, as they moved from the _Dartmouth_ to the _Eleanor _to the _Beaver_—"this ship deserves to get ransacked with a name like that," Alfred informed his new friend—until at last, the Boston Harbor was brimming with broken crates and pools of tea swirling about in the salty brine, nearly forty six tons of the mess causing the harbor to smell like the inside of one of London's very finest tea parlors.

"I never did like that stuff," Alfred confided to Samuel Adams, as they watched their companions triumphantly march off the ship, slapping each other on the back and cheering. "It tasted like leaves!"

Adams gave him a look, trying to figure out if he was making a joke, but Alfred looked very serious, his forehead creased in disapproval, so he decided not to correct the young country. "Agreed," he said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. "I'm more of a beer kind of gentleman, myself. Speaking of, I did promise you I would buy you a round when we got back to the tavern. That is, if Kirkland lets you stay out this late," he added, purposely goading the colony.

"I don't need that old man's approval for anything!" Alfred shouted indignantly, waving his axe wildly. "I'm nearly a grown man, dammit! I'm America! No one tells me what to do! I—"  
"Careful, lad!" Adams warned, laughing, hastily confiscating the axe. "You're going to take somebody's eye out with that, you little savage."

"I can't be contained!" Alfred shouted as he ran down the gangway of the _Beaver_, looking quite ridiculous with the smudged soot and paint on his face and the moccasins that didn't really go with the rest of his outfit. "I'm gonna find old man England and tell him just what I think of his damn tea!" And with that, he marched away, despite Sam Adams' attempts to get him to stop.

But he stopped when he made it to the wharf, shocked by the sheer number of people that had shown up to cheer the patriots on. There were people _everywhere_—not just the day laborers, but even Boston's gentility had come out to gawk. There was a vendor selling hot chocolate in the chilly night, and men and women laughing and complaining about the overpowering smell of tea—had they all come out to support them? For the second time that night, Alfred felt so proud of his people that he thought he was about to burst through his wool overcoat.

_Just a colony, huh?_ _We'll see about that_, he thought smugly as he surveyed the giant crowd. Eventually he retreated to Sam Adams' tavern for a pint, but he was on edge the entire time, eagerly anticipating Arthur's reaction. He felt like a little kid that had done something very wrong and was waiting for his parents to come home and find out about it. Except…except that he was oddly eager for confrontation. _Come on Arthur, let's see what you'll do_, he silently dared his mentor as he raised a pint to the night's shenanigans. _See if you can tell me what to do now._

* * *

_*The Liberty-John Hancock's ship that was confiscated by British authorities for smuggling. Oh man, I love John Hancock. What a character. _

_Wow, I really like writing rebellious teenager Alfred! What a cutie pie. Was he too ridiculous? I mean, he was a little drunk, so..._

_Anyway, like I said, I tried to keep this historically accurate! Yeah, there really was _**_that much tea_**_. And those are the names of the ships in the harbor-apparently, a beaver was considered an exotic animal in North America back then! (Just not to a certain Canadian). And they really did dress up like Native Americans, albeit very badly, and tried to blame it on them. Good thinking, guys. That'll be sure to fool professional soldiers. Never mind that many of them were drunk. But whatever!_


End file.
